reconnaissance
by samuraibeamish
Summary: They had wordlessly constructed a routine, after she convinced him to abandon Listening Post Bravo and accompany her to the settlement. Every night, he found himself invited into her bed – what was perhaps becoming their bed, he blushed with embarrassment – and every morning, he would rise alone.


Four sunrises ago, she brought him to Sanctuary.

Throughout their months of journeying across the Commonwealth together, they often stopped at the settlement. He would secure the perimeter, patrol accompanied by Dogmeat, while Beck re-organized the workbench and checked on the settlement's state of affairs. Despite the regularity of their visits, they seldom loitered longer than an afternoon. This, however, seemed markedly different.

Their first evening in Sanctuary was spent repairing the scope of her sniper rifle, lens damaged during their mission to secure the Sentinel site. Preoccupied with an incoming pack of ferals, a lapse of judgement saw her fragmentation grenade detonated inside too restricted an area. By some shocking twist of fate, a piece of shrapnel lodged inside the reticle was the extent of her injuries.

The task, however menial, offered a welcomed distraction.

Tinkering around with equipment and tools had always been an enjoyable pastime, but building something tangible – assembling components, worthless in isolation, to build something with value – became inexplicably meaningful. The Institute designed his calloused hands for destruction, but during these moments, they were capable of creation as well. Silly, how improvising scrap wire to resemble cross-hairs could be a form of catharsis.

:::

Once darkness swallowed the irradiated sky, he excused himself from her living quarters and retreated toward the door. They never stayed long enough to warrant making overnight arrangements, but he figured there was probably an empty mattress somewhere he could procure. However, as he breached the threshold, she called, so sweet – _Danse_.

Feeling cautious beneath her gaze, he sauntered toward her. She reached, quietly, waiting for him to reciprocate the gesture and laced their fingers together. With a demure smile and silent resolution, she escorted him down the corridor.

:::

During their first night in Sanctuary, they went to bed together. But they did not indulge themselves in the luxury of consummating their relationship.

(He was not ready. Besides, could what existed between them be defined as a _relationship_? More truthfully, perhaps, it was a mutually agreeable partnership – freckled with brief, fleeting moments of… something more considerable than professional camaraderie… but certainly without breaching intimate territory).

Instead, they arranged themselves for sleep in silence, a safe distance established between their bodies. Skin refrained from touching skin until naturally gravitating beneath a hazy green moonlight. When sunlight kissed the scorched horizon, arms were wrapped protectively around his broad shoulders and an unfamiliarly peaceful expression was nestled between her breasts.

If the circumstances were different, she would cherish their closeness – but the Commonwealth was not a nurturing environment. Before the seeds of their feelings could germinate, the wasteland's depraved sense of irony demanded its crucifixion of the Paladin. Her affections could not stitch his wounds. So, after allowing herself a brief moment of selfish indulgence, she carefully extricated herself from the embrace.

:::

Their fourth morning in Sanctuary, a lingering warmth in the rumpled sheets greeted him once again.

They had wordlessly constructed a routine, after she convinced him to abandon Listening Post Bravo and accompany her to the settlement. Every night, he found himself invited into her bed – what was perhaps becoming _their_ bed, he blushed with embarrassment – and every morning, he would rise alone.

She honored her responsibilities as General of the Minutemen with unwavering devotion. He would wake to find her preoccupied, relaying messages with Preston regarding neighboring settlements or toiling alongside the settlers in the fields, and he would resign himself to another afternoon of weapons maintenance.

He wondered how long she anticipated on staying in Sanctuary. The destitution of the Commonwealth demanded constant attention. _Was it even safe, keeping him in such close proximity on settlement grounds_? Nobody could guarantee the Institute would ignore such a golden opportunity to infiltrate and cripple the Minutemen. A distant switch could flip. The modded pipe pistols each settler wielded would be nothing more than a minor inconvenience against his advanced engineering.

Sovereignty was not something he could claim ownership of. He existed as nothing more than an empty vessel to be manipulated and disposed of.

Beck, however, appeared untroubled with similar suspicions. Despite the unblemished trust between them, Danse could not readily accept the information uncovered during her investigations within the Institute. _The Institute doesn't have remote control of their synths _– but her reassurance threatened the perverse comfort of his fears. Perhaps the fraying thread anchoring him to reality was the ability to recognize the enemy, to point his laser rifle and say, "_That is the enemy_. _I am the enemy_."

His entire existence, three decades worth of memories and sensations and _feelings_, exposed as a fabrication – how could her faith in him remain so impervious?

It was, without a doubt, inconceivable.

Somewhere along their journey together, a misunderstanding occurred. She tolerated his righteous indignation and demonstrated support toward his wholehearted serving of the Brotherhood. Compounded with exemplary field performance, that she shared his philosophy seemed like a logical conclusion.

An astonishing miscalculation on his part.

He thought too idealistically. She played the necessary politics and demonstrated the required subordination, and this convinced leadership of her devotion to their mission, not her personal agenda. The Brotherhood proliferated upon camaraderie, obedience, hierarchy – and it was foolish to believe someone so stubbornly independent would relinquish that sovereignty. She loathed the notion of considering her presence in any faction as a fundamental piece to her identity. Her survival was not contingent on belonging to anyone or anything.

Now exiled from his singular sense of belonging, he felt completely vulnerable. Like the cardinal directions suddenly inverted or disappeared entirely, he was lost.

:::

That evening, she decorated the table with grilled Brahmin steak and vegetables harvested straight from the field. Since departing from the bunker, their appetites had been minimal, but she insisted on preparing meals anyways. It was a futile attempt, but Danse appreciated the feigned normalcy, nevertheless.

As they aimlessly prodded at their food in thick silence, he considered the thoughts festering inside his head. The anxieties, the uncertainties, the questions whose answers he couldn't understand – all crawling beneath his skin and forming a painful rash, a crippling insecurity, a yearning for validation.

"Knight, you carried the Brotherhood through some of its greatest achievements. Your name was becoming recognized among its finest marksmen, alongside seasoned soldiers like Knight Astlin. Why… – how could you abandon such a promising future?"

"My loyalty lies with you, not the Brotherhood." She answered without hesitation, sounding so impassive, like her reasoning was as simple as elementary weapon schematics. "For the record – the name's Beck."

"That loyalty should serve Elder Maxson," he responded, disregarding the subtle bite to the end of her words. She had adopted a sudden contempt for being referred to by rank, he observed, upon returning from meeting with the Elder. He wondered what transpired aboard the Prydwen, but she made her unwillingness to acknowledge the event exceedingly obvious. "You were expected to pursue its objectives wholeheartedly the moment after accepting my sponsorship."

"Mmm, that makes sense," she mused, a contemplative expression crossing her features before resuming indifference. She continued mindlessly pushing food around her plate, not reciprocating eye contact. "But I'm done masquerading myself as another military dog Maxson can control. My interests never completely aligned with the Brotherhood anyways."

"Don't you understand? It's a strategic disadvantage and tactically irresponsible to disaffiliate yourself with them. They can provide resources and reinforcement, in a far more organized manner than the Minutemen. You shouldn't squander that, especially for such an unforgivable transgression such as committing treason to protect the enemy."

"I woke up this morning and found you sleeping beside me, not under Neriah's dissection scalpel for further analysis. That's the only justification I need."

"You held Elder Maxson at gunpoint!"

A turbulent storm raging within her, she finally challenged his eye contact, with such furious fortitude he almost considered dropping the subject altogether. It was unnerving how such a small, delicate creature (Her Brotherhood-issued power armor required significant customization to account for her short stature) could harbor such intensity. Beck certainly lived up to the reputation she created – the woman who emerged from beneath the scourged earth, more radioactive than the nuclear fallout she survived.

"_Maxson_ should consider himself lucky," she snarled, exaggerating her refusal to acknowledge his title. "I'll burn the Commonwealth down to the fucking ground if someone crosses you again."

"A… _synth_" – such a sour word on his tongue – "isn't worth it."

Immediately her animosity dissipated. She had struck and retreated as quickly as a radiation storm.

"Synth or human, the specifics mean nothing to me. How can I help you understand that?" she pleaded. Dam compromised, emotion drowned every ounce of inhibition and flooded every word. "Scrapper in Rivet City, Paladin of the Brotherhood, Institute synth – _what _you are has never mattered. I have no regrets about my decisions and sacrifices because I believe in _who_ you are. My heart cares not about _what _you are but _who_ you are."

That was certainly not the response he anticipated, and it was certainly not something he could formulate his own response to. Sure, his comrades in the Brotherhood cared about him. His and Elder Maxson's companionship traced back to their youth in the Capital Wasteland. His friendship with Scribe Haylen was substantial enough to elicit rather unfavorable rumors around the Prydwen. Moreover, he was highly regarded as a seasoned soldier and received much praise for his abilities and commitment from the Elder himself.

Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say his comrades in the Brotherhood cared about the fervently devoted Paladin. Nobody wanted a talented soldier butchered by super mutants or gunned down by raiders, but whether anyone would demonstrate equal concern over the man beneath the power armor was ambiguous – until the truth behind his abhorrent existence was uncovered, at least. From the earliest memory he could locate (whether or not he could claim that memory as _his_ was a different matter), only Cutler extended the same degree of consideration she so readily offered.

It was… uncomfortable in its unfamiliarity. He preferred what the Brotherhood offered: the security of trusting his comrades to provide reinforcement on the battlefield and leave him to retreat peacefully into his quarters afterward. No intrusive personal questions or attempts at redefining boundaries between one another. Despite his popularity among female Initiates (something he admits to awareness of with great reluctance), his preoccupation with protocol kept potential suitors at a distance. It carved somewhat of a lonely existence, but it was comfortable. Closeness was a liability – it was dangerous because people could get eviscerated by vicious mongrels or decapitated by raider psychos or injected with forced evolutionary virus or – people could realize his very existence is physical proof of humanity's sin –

"Are you… saying you're in love with me?" His eyes dropped to the floor, uncomfortable, gaze hardened enough to unearth the ground below them. "I have no experience with matters of the heart. Those sons of bitches who created me couldn't even be bothered to implant memories of having siblings or parents. I don't know what it's like having a family or – or _being_ with anyone."

"We can have a family together," she blurted. Tato red blossomed across her cheeks after the words frantically tumbled off her lips. She looked surprised by her own statement. After all, she was no more comfortable with matters of the heart.

"Beck," he started with a pained expression. "I don't think I'm capable of – "

With the conviction of a woman scorned, she interrupted him. "_We are your family _– Sanctuary and every allied settlement across the Commonwealth. Everyone in Diamond City – Publick Occurrences, the detective agency – the teachers at the old schoolhouse. Curie, working alongside Dr. Amari at the Memory Lounge – _Haylen_? Don't tell me you've already forgotten her."

Danse stood, dumbfounded and speechless. Over their travels together, he established amicable acquaintances with her contacts and found himself rather enjoying the company of select individuals. In his quest for facilitating more structure among the Minutemen, Preston occasionally consulted his more disciplined experience, and he'd once traded schematics with Sturges over an off-duty Gwinnett Stout. Sometimes, he and Piper shared brief but meaningful conversations about unifying the Commonwealth through distributing truth, and twice an on-edge Cait distracted herself from medicating by accompanying him during routine training exercises. Before it interfered with his self-preservation, Danse would disdainfully admit Curie's intelligent yet innocent demeanor was a refreshing contrast from the wasteland's depravity and developed a certain affinity for being called _Monsieur Danse_. He even found the Bobrov brothers rather endearing, at least when they weren't recruiting Beck into their shenanigans.

But nothing could perforate the shadow cast by the Brotherhood – _there's the Brotherhood, and then there's everything else_. These interactions were forced to remain isolated and impersonal. No matter their (disorganized) camaraderie, their (disaffiliated) agreement, their (distracting) leisure – unsanctioned fraternizing with the Commonwealth civilians violated protocol. Despite the longing he would admit only behind closed doors, Danse would not – could not – reciprocate their attempts at friendship. _There's the Brotherhood, and then there's everything else. _

Or – there was the Brotherhood. Now, there is everything else.

"It's… more dysfunctional than anything you're used to," she conceded gently, hoping to conceal how disheartening his lack of response felt. Her confession, although honest, had been in poor judgement – an ill-timed consequence of losing herself in tumultuous emotions. "Hell, you might think the bunker is preferable. But I hope – … I hope you'll at least have me."

He wanted to have her, and somewhere alongside the other desires long buried beneath power armor, wanted to have the family of which she spoke. But was someone – _something_ – like him deserving?

"Look," Danse started. "I… I'm not going to lie to you. You're going to have to be patient with me. Coming to terms with… everything is going to be a very difficult journey."

"You said something once," she answered in a voice fierce in its tenderness, "that I think you need to hear repeated back to you. _No matter how bad things get out here, just remember that I'll always have your back_. You can have all the time you need, Danse."

"You don't know how much it means to me to hear you say that."

Feeling courageous beneath her gaze, he sauntered toward her. He reached, quietly, waiting for her to reciprocate the gesture and laced their fingers together. With a questioning glance and shy resolve, he escorted her down the corridor.


End file.
